


The Love on Your Skin

by AetherSeer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Tom’s arm has been dotted with red tallies his entire life, neat little segments of fives and tens.





	The Love on Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [protect_rosie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/protect_rosie/gifts).



> I wrote this piece for protect_rosie as a part of the Hockey Holidays 2017 challenge. I do so hope you like it.

Tom’s arm has been dotted with red tallies his entire life, neat little segments of fives and tens. A few have faded with time—childhood friendships that grew apart, the fierce blush of first loves that now stray into shades of pink—and a few have turned that sorrowful deep black. Tom can put a name to each dark tally mark—his great-grandfather, his cousin, his primary school hockey coach—but he doesn't like the reminder, so he tends to cover his marks with cuffs, sleeves, and the occasional bandage in a pinch.

That probably explains why he can’t pinpoint the exact moment one of his tallies brightened to the silvery white of a soulmate. And why he has no idea whose tally it is, especially given it’s not actually one of the newest ones.

He’s still staring at that flash of white against his skin when Mike gets home from the grocery run. “I couldn’t find that fancy brand of cereal that Holts was talking about—Tommy?”

Tom just holds out his wrist for Mike to see. When Mike comes closer, Tom’s throat finally works: “I don’t know who it is. I don’t—Mike—how am I supposed to know?”

Mike traces the thin tally line with one square fingernail and Tom falls silent. “It’s not new,” Mike finally says. “You have other tallies that come after.”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. “But I don’t know what that _means._ I have _a lot_ of tallies. And why did it turn white _now?_ Aren’t soulmates supposed to be ‘The One’ and shit? Like, you know the minute you meet them?”

Mike lets go of Tom’s arm and steps back. “I guess. That’s what everyone says.”

Unwittingly, Tom’s eyes catch on the thick cuff at Mike’s wrist. “Do you—?”

Mike’s eyes flick down to his wrist, and he nods. “Yeah, for a while now.”

“Oh.” Tom’s not sure what to do with the revelation that Mike has a soulmate tally, or that Tom’s just now finding out about it. “How long have you known? Like, do you know who she is?”

Mike rubs his fingertips along the smooth, well-worn leather. “I—a year? I think? And I thought I knew, once, but … I guessed wrong.”

 

They don’t really talk about it. They play video games and overly competitive ping-pong, crash together on their couch after games for The Bachelor and movies. Mike makes smoothies, and Tom makes eggs, and Mike never takes off his cuff. Tom’s arm is bared more often than not, now, but the pale skin of Mike’s wrist stays hidden.

It’s probably not normal to want to see your friend and roommate’s bare skin so much, but Tom finds his eyes fixating on that thick black band more than ever, lately. He doesn’t think Mike’s noticed, but then again, Tom hadn’t noticed his own soulmate tally for months, and Mike’s not stupid.

 

Tom’s riding high on the win over Boston, Mike at his side in the booth at the bar. He’s tipsy and happy; Mike’s flushed with leftover game energy and alcohol. He’s relaxed back against the booth, happily leaning against Tom and gesticulating one-handed to add to whatever debate he’s having with an equally tipsy Jay.

Mike’s other hand rests comfortably on Tom’s knee, Tom’s own arm slung over Mike’s broad shoulders. Tom’s free hand slips into his lap, and then over to curl around Mike’s wrist. Mike throws him a glance, but doesn’t seem to mind Tom being handsy. He even turns his hand palm up and links their fingers so they’re holding hands beneath the table. Tom bumps his nose against Mike’s hair and hums happily.

When they stand to leave, Tom tugs Mike against him, his hand skating down Mike’s arm. Tom’s fingers catch on the clasp of Mike’s cuff. He tugs once, absently, and runs a fingertip along the soft skin at the underside of Mike’s wrist. Mike stiffens and pulls away.

Tom’s face must show some sort of the hurt he feels, because Andre makes a soft noise where he’s also waiting for the cab. Mike leans into Tom’s side after shooting Andre a look Tom can’t decipher. Tom blows a breath out and slings an arm around Mike’s shoulders.  Apology accepted.

 

Tom’s half-asleep when they get back to their apartment, and goes agreeably when Mike points him to bed. As Mike guides him through the door, Tom catches his wrist—the cuffed one—and asks flat-out, “How could she not want you back? You’re—”

Mike pulls back, something in his face going tight. “Tommy …”

“I wish you were my soulmate,” Tom says. He can feel his eyes widen; that wasn’t supposed to come out. As he watches, Mike breathes in, and out, his mouth pursed.

“You have no idea, do you?” Mike finally gets out. “You can’t even remember whose tally you wear, or who might wear yours!”

Tom stares at Mike. Mike stares back. Mike holds Tom’s eyes as he works at his cuff, practically ripping it off his wrist. Tom jerks back when Mike thrusts it forward, defiant.

Mike’s wrist is absolutely covered in bright red tally marks, a chaotic cluster rather than the neat lines of Tom’s own. But just off-center, nestled beneath the base of his thumb, there’s a long silvery mark. It’s larger than the surrounding marks, and stands out brilliantly amid the red of the love Mike wears on his skin.

Tom traces the line with his eyes, and then with trembling fingers. The skin’s warm to the touch, but the mark, for all its brilliance, feels no different than the rest. But a heat settles low in Tom’s belly nonetheless, a tightness in his chest.

“Do you get it, yet?” Mike demands.

Tom swallows hard, and looks up from the tally to Mike’s face. “You said it had been a year. You said—” he gets out. “—you knew?”

Mike reaches out with his marked arm, his own fingers finding that bright silvery tally on Tom’s exposed arm. “The stories sometimes get it right,” he says softly.


End file.
